


I counted till they danced so

by middlemarch



Series: Mercy March [10]
Category: Little Women (1994), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott, Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Female Friendship, Ice Skating, Nature, Post-War, Romance, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: A visit to Concord for the holidays.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/gifts).



The cold air was a tonic, just this side of painful and very sweet. Jed wondered how long it would be before he stopped noticing it but it was entirely unlike the winter weather he’d grown up with and still drew his attention, just as he was yet taken aback by the way the snow drifted on the fields of George’s farm, how the sky could grow full of a sort of heavy white cloud that cast grey shadows over the city and the sea, that meant a storm was coming. It wouldn’t have been his first thought to leave the comfort of the March’s parlor this chilly blue afternoon, but when he woke from the restorative nap Mary had insisted he take, Margaret March informed him she’d sent Jo and Mary out for “a bit of fresh air, they were growing restive” and suggested he join them “and get some color in your cheeks.” She’d assured him she was happy to watch over Daniel, who was napping in the crib Hannah had unearthed from the garret, and that it would be a pleasure and not a chore, “not even demanding compared to minding the twins.” He let himself be gently but firmly shooed outdoors with Mr. March’s old ice skates slung over his shoulder, pointed in the direction of the frozen pond, and reminded to come home in time for supper.

He heard Jo first. He couldn’t help liking her unabashed exuberance and spirit, so like Mary in some ways, so different in others. Jo was such a young person, for all that she was past twenty and well on her way to a confirmed and joyous spinsterhood, and though he had seen how gentle and soothing she could be with invalid Beth, with her small niece and nephew when they were fussy and needed to be put to bed, this version of her, her chestnut hair streaming behind her like a flag, her red scarf like a cardinal’s plumage against a world that was pale and frosted was everything he ever thought of her. It would have been her idea to go skating, to take advantage of the clear skies, the diamond bright sunshine, her idea to race from one end to the other after ascertaining the surface was secure, the fish locked deep below. She would have traded on the debt Mary owed as a guest and her own knowledge of her friend’s love of the past-time gleaned from conversations in their Boston parlor; she and her mother would have honed and polished the skates in the weeks before the Fosters' arrival for just such an outing, letting Beth thread the red laces and the yellow with her careful fingers.

Mary, skating just as quickly as her companion, was the surprise. No one could look at her now and think she was a serious Boston matron, well-regarded for her good works in her church, mother to a fine son, formerly the Head Nurse of a Union hospital; she seemed only the bright girl she had once been years ago, though her hair was still decorously secured and her coat and muffler the sober colors of autumn, dark green and grey. She had only given him hints of this aspect of herself when they worked together and he had not expected to see her so altered, so refreshed and blooming with the winter weather, the vigorous exercise, the calls to race or twirl about the ice in elaborate spinning patterns he had never mastered. He would watch them a while before he put on his own skates; he was far less accomplished than Mary and Jo and he would stop the fun they were having if he joined them now. In a half-hour, he would make his way to Mary and slip an arm around her waist, letting her determine the pace they took circling the pond, briefly noticing the shape their laughter took in the frigid air, the invisible confirmed and enveloping, as Mary’s affections were. The pond was frozen solid and she would not let him fall.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift-fic for sagiow for her donation to the Sierra Club fundraiser. She didn't make a specific request for the story, so I extrapolated some Phoster might be in order and I couldn't resist getting Jo March back on skates.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
